Your Canvas
The canvas was never blank.
I know you not,
But I see that canvas
When I think of you,
And I know -
The canvas was never blank.
Your canvas is filled with shadows
And deep oranges.
You are the sunset at its greatest,
Irreconcilable moment of dusk.
Hills roll and overlap one another,
A dark slope outlines each one.
It’s not unmysterious,
But it could be.
What is behind those hills?
What is in the great unknown?
It is enough, however, to look upon the hills
And not question.
What I see is what I want
What I need is what’s not there.
Except it is -
Hidden behind the known.
So you see, the canvas was never blank.
And if it were would I see more?
He holds the little girl safely to his chest. The baby yawns widely without opening her eyes, and settles back into a soft slumber.
Across the room her mother sleeps in the white sheeted hospital bed.
He whispers promises to the girl, promises he wasn’t able to keep to her mother. For a moment, he looks over at the form of his exhausted baby sister, then back to the child she, hours before, brought into the world.
No one expected the babe’s father to go. He left one morning and simply did not return. The next morning, papers read: Aliceville Officer Killed. Unambiguous, clean cut, and direct. In summary the articles generally said something along the lines of young police officer shot during a traffic stop, dies enroute to hospital, leaves behind wife and unborn child.
That was four months ago.
Luca Haize can feel his niece’s tiny body respond to each gentle inhale and exhale. It is the middle of the night. A nurse comes in to check on the baby. She says something about how excited he must be to at last be able hold his little girl. Before he can respond, she leaves.
He takes a sip of water, trying to swallow the boulder in his throat.
This little girl, he decides, must not have doubts about him, or her father.
He tells her who he is. He tells her who her father was.
A good man. Is how he begins. Your daddy was a good man.
He passes the night telling her stories about the best man, the bravest man he ever knew.
Not because he died. He assures her. No, not because he died. And not because he was unafraid. He was brave because he worked and cared and showed kindness, in spite of his fear.
Someday. He says. Someday you will need to be brave even when you are afraid, but you don’t have to be brave alone. Your mother is brave, and afraid, and not alone.
The bundle in his arms stirs and begins to call for her mother. Her mother wakes in response and asks for her.
It’s okay. She coos calmly. It’s okay to be afraid, my sweetheart, but you needn’t be afraid alone. I am here. You are safe. We are brave together.
The Boy From My Childhood
I still remember the way
he used to smile at me
from across the room
as if his boyhood hid his sins
and in truth, it rather did.
I still remember the time
we sat on the swings
as he mourned his dead dad,
reminding me that my dad
had been there that night for him,
but until that sunny afternoon
I had never known that was something my father did.
I still remember the day
I remembered what he had done;
how he layed his little boy body
upon the frame of my little girl self;
years passed with me
never knowing what it meant
until all at once I did.
I still remember the night
he came over
and we made a fort of
blankets and the swingset and other playthings;
my dad brought us store bought cookies
and we three slept under the stars
in my backyard, as regular campers did.
I still remember the afternoon
we played those games of tag,
yelling and crying and laughing
as children did.
I still remember the moment
I realized we were no longer little ones;
it was the moment I heard the news
that he had killed them,
and I shook as I thought back
to that cool summer night
when we were just children,
before we turned to darkness,
playing and dreaming as the innocent do.
I still remember.
A Revelation At A Time
I lay curled on the end of the couch, my heavy eyelids closed, my weary body relaxed, my restless spirit at ease for the first time in weeks.
"She and I are the future of this ministry, ya know," I hear her whisper to her mom.
"I know," she responds gently.
"It's funny, cause she doesn't know it yet."
"I know." A pause. "She will."
He seems a bit baffled as my tentative smile and acne blessed face look up at him from my place against the window. He nods at the seat beside me and I tilt my chin forward in response. We have an understanding. He sits.
There's surprise in his eyes when I offer the piece of gum. Simple generosity is fast dying.
"Gabrielle," I say, placing my hand indicatively on my chest.
"Nelson," He replies, extending his hand.
A conversation begins with vaguely nosey questions.
No, he does not live in San Fransisco, just visiting. I had been in the city just long enough to buy a bottled iced coffee as I hurried from the arrival gate to yet another departing gate. My time in California was short lived to say the least.
I had started my day in Alaska, and would end it having set foot in five different states: Alaska, Washington, California, Oklahoma, Kansas.
This sparks subtle curiosity, so I eagerly explain.
Like most of my "seat pals" he looks at me; caught somewhere between wanting the conversation to end and wanting to know more, aversion and admiration, confusion and relation.
He's kinder than he may otherwise be; to this stranger, I am one full of surprises. The first being my age, it's the thing that surprises most people. I'm young. Younger, albeit not by much, than he originally thought, and younger than he expects a missionary to be.
I explain what it is my team and I did in Alaska. I tell him about the children's ministry, and about going house to house. He does not ask, but still I go on to clarify that going house to house is about building relationships and getting to have personal conversations.
"That's what living for Jesus is, in part, about. It is about living in a saving, life transforming relationship with Him."
The conversation peters off after a short time. He puts his headphones on, and starts watching a movie he has downloaded on his phone. I stare out the window for a period of time before opening my journal and detailing my life of the past ten days.
An hour and a half later, the plane lands. We say some pleasant parting words and go.
My parents are there waiting for me when I reach baggage claim. We embrace and I wait for my duffel, watching as case after case passes. I see him, Nelson, grab his bag, and walk towards an older woman who I take to be his mother.
We make brief eye contact and just as we met, we part - a simple nod of understanding is exchanged, and we go our different ways.
There were ten items on Coke McDonald’s to do list on June 17, but jumping off a cliff was not one of them. And yet, there he was, falling through the air; anger surging through him at having been put in such an impossible situation, but there was also fear and even a sort of cruel humor.
Coke had this day planned for weeks and it seemed like for once, everything was going to work out. But then, the call came, and it ruined everything.
“Coke? I lost it,” his sister’s voice came through the receiver desperately.
“Lost what?”
She didn’t respond.
“Mary, what did you lose?”
“The ring.”
It was the one thing, the only thing that had been asked of her, and she blew it.
“Mary, all you had to do was keep it in the box, and keep it at your apartment,” Coke responded tensely.
“I know. I know, Cokie, and I’m sorry,” Mary said. “I had it, I did. I didn’t even open the box. I set it on the kitchen table, right in the middle so I’d see it and not forget. But then…”
“Then what?”
“Well, it’s just… well then some friends came over and-”
“What friends?” Coke interrupted.
“Ben and - and Kev and Cici.”
“I thought you had stopped hanging out with them.”
“Well I had, but then… then Kev reached out, and I hadn’t seen them in so long. I didn’t see any harm.”
“Evidently,” Coke sighed.
“I’m sorry, Cokie.”
“I know you are, Mary, but this time it’s not enough. They took it, give me an address so I can go get it.”
“No. No, Cokie. I can do it.”
“You can come with me, but I don’t want you going alone.”
“Let me do this one on my own. I promise, I’ll get it,” Mary wanted fiercely to prove herself.
So, once again, Coke gave his twin sister the benefit of the doubt.
It’s hard to determine the exact moment which marked the beginning of the end for Mary McDonald. Mary struggled from a young age with neurosis and borderline personality disorder, which worsened as she grew older. She was always either under focused and distracted, or over focused to the point of obsession. It was Coke who kept her sane. In that great sea that was her, it was him every time who held her hand and kept her from sinking below the surface or being caught up in the ocean winds and swept away.
At 19, a new kind of stronghold entered Mary’s life in the form of Kevin Cain: six feet, two inches, curly red hair, dark eyes, and a smooth voice which promised and deceived again and again. If Coke was her stillness in the storm, Kev was her storm. He was that reckless ocean wind, which swept her away with the force of a typhoon and let her go for moments at a time.
After two years of being tossed around and as many months of being back in the safe house that was her brother, the winds had started back up again.
The evening before that regretful call, Coke sat down at his dorm room desk and went over the list of things he needed to do the following day.
Three months before, Coke’s dad had called him, excited.
June 17 marked 30 years to the day that Coke and Mary’s parents had met. Cynthia Franklin’s car had broken down on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, Maryland. Walking down to a fishing pond nearby, came Kurt McDonald, pole in hand. He fixed the problem temporarily, and they went their separate ways. It was more than a year later that they met again; and the rest is, well, what it is.
The plan for the surprise was simple: just like every summer for the last 26 years, the couple would take a road trip and pick their two young adult children up along the way. Their planned route would have a slight detour taking them down a long forgotten country road where they would stop at the place they had first met: Cokeland, Maryland. There, Kurt would propose with the new ring his daughter had picked out, down on one knee as he had done two and a half decades before.
Coke had checked and rechecked the list.
1. Make dinner reservations for the family at Monte’s
2. Pick up pastries from E. Claire’s
3. Get bouquet from Beautiful Blossoms for mom
4. Be at Mary’s BY 9:30!!
The list went on, mapping out each step that needed to be taken that day in order to make his dad’s surprise proposal an absolute success.
Satisfied with what he read, Coke folded the list, turned out the light, and went to bed.
“Dad? There’s a bit of a problem,” Coke said gently the next morning. “Do you think you could hold off coming into town for a couple more hours?”
“Is everything okay,” his father asked uncertainly.
“Yeah, it’s fine. There was just a bit of a mix up, and if you guys come at 10:00, we won’t be ready.”
“What’s the mix up about?”
“It’s nothing, really. Being taken care of as we speak,” Coke assured him. “We just need an extra hour or so.”
“Alright then, I’m sure I can convince your mother to stay a little longer.”
Relieved, Coke hung up.
Mary had called him moments after, telling him she had got the ring back.
“It was just a joke. Kev was just messing around.”
Coke became hot with anger and tried to control his voice. “If that’s how your friends play, Mary, you need new friends.”
“He gave it back. He was going to give it back,” Mary replied.
“They aren’t good for you. They aren’t good for themselves.”
“We aren’t kids anymore. You can’t just tell me who I can and can’t hang out with.”
“That’s not what I’m trying to do, Mary.”
The conversation went on for a few more minutes, ending with Mary’s declaration that she was a grown woman and as such, did not need her brother’s protection.
An hour later, Coke was at Mary’s apartment door. After three minutes and no answer, he opened the unlocked door and went in.
After confirming that Mary was not there, he tried her cell. No answer.
Walking over to the kitchen table, he saw the blue velvet box in which the ring later meant for his mother sat. Weighted down by the box was a handwritten letter in Mary’s rushed scrawl.
Coke,
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
Everything keeps falling apart. I thought I could make Mom and Daddy proud. I couldn’t. I thought I could be better than I was, than I am. But I’m not. I keep thinking the next thing will be the right thing, and it never is.
It’s not about the ring, or our phone conversation. It’s about everything. Every time I invest myself, it crumbles. It’s like my entire life has been building up to this moment and now there’s this giant banner in front of me screaming, MARY ELIZABETH MCDONALD IS NOT ENOUGH. And worse, MARY ELIZABETH MCDONALD IS TOO MUCH.
It seemed like everything was so much better there for a while. Like I was better. But I’m not, Cokie, and I’m kidding myself, we are kidding ourselves to believe I am better, can stay better. I promised myself that if I messed up again, I’d clean it up. Really clean up the mess.
I love you, Cokie. I love Mom and Daddy.
I’m ready to fly.
Coke called Mary.
“Pick up. Pick up. Pick up.” Voicemail.
“Mary Elizabeth, don’t do this. Pick up. Talk to me. Please.”
Where would she go?
“If I could choose how I die,” Mary had said months before, “I’d want to fall from high up and land in water. Somewhere surrounded by trees. It’d be like I’m flying before it all ends.”
“That’s completely morbid,” Coke had said disapprovingly.
Jay’s Peak.
Coke called the police as he frantically drove to the peak.
“It’s my sister. Mary McDonald. She’s going to kill herself…”
Coke was just moments from the peak when he had called for help, he could hear sirens in the distance.
He ran to the top and there she was. Right on the edge, ready to jump.
“Mary don’t,” he screamed.
She didn’t look over her shoulder, or turn around. She just took the final step off the edge.
There were ten items on Coke McDonald’s to do list on June 17, but jumping off a cliff was not one of them. And yet, there he was, falling through the air; anger surging through him at having been put in such an impossible situation, but there was also fear and even a sort of cruel humor.
All of their lives, Coke had tried. He had tried to take care of Mary then, now, always. It was all he had ever done. It was all he could do. It was all he knew to do.
Saving Mary, forever and always.
Writer’s Block
Write.
Anything.
Everything.
All that comes to mind.
How do you defeat writer’s block?
You write through it.
So do,
Write consistently
Relentlessly.
About it all.
It isn’t required to make sense
You are a writer, after all
A most mysterious and stunning being
Your mind is a whirlwind
Of creativity
And stories
And brilliant, foolish ideas
But you are no fool
Make no mistake.
You are no fool.
You are, quite simply,
A writer.
A Father By Any Other Name
Growing up, you always said:
“I'm not your Father. I'm your dad.”
It took time for me to understand
And other kids never understood what I meant
When I said that I had a Father and a dad
And for a long time I didn’t understand
That these kids didn’t see the world as I did
Growing up, you always said:
“Your plans may be great. God’s plans are greater.”
What I didn’t understand then
Was that you said those words from a place of experience
Because you had spent years running away from
God’s greatest
In pursuit of kingdoms you had dreamt up,
Building castles out of sand
I am not one to over praise my daddy
Because my daddy taught me that all praise
Is for my Heavenly Father
But my daddy is good
And he tries
He isn’t a perfect father
But he is a fine dad
A Father By Any Other Name
Growing up, you always said:
“I am not your Father. I am your dad.”
For a long time it didn’t fully make sense
Then it became so normal to me
And other kids did not understand what I meant
When I said that I had a Father and a dad
And for a long time I didn’t understand
That these kids didn’t see the world as I did
“So your dad isn’t actually your dad?”
“No, he is. He’s just not my Father.”
“So… he adopted you?”
“No, he didn’t. I’m his.”
It always ended in confusion
And me being so young
Was baffled by their bafflement
Growing up, you always said:
“I love you. God loves you. Jesus loves you. And he’s gonna do great things with your life.”
You’d then kiss my head
Tuck me in
And turn out the light
The “Goodnight” ritual
Growing up, you always said:
“Your plans may be great. God’s plans are greater.”
What I didn’t understand for a long time
Is that you said those words from a place of experience
Because you had spent years running away from
God’s greatest
In pursuit of kingdoms you had dreamt up,
Building castles out of sand
I am not one to over praise my daddy
Because my daddy taught me that all praise
Is for my Father
For my Jesus
For my Saviour
For my King
I have not and will never claim to have
“The world’s best dad”
I am not so naive or arrogant to truly believe that he is
Let Ben Platt have the finest and greatest
But my dad is good
And he tries
And he has raised me on the knowledge
That he is not perfect, but I have a Heavenly Father who is
He has instilled in me truths that are tested and tried
And still remain sure
There is this man in my life
Who has always loved me
Who has always taken care of me
Who has always done his best
He isn’t a perfect father
But he is a good dad